Relief
by John Faina
Summary: Written for the upcoming episode that we are all dying to see! This takes place two days after the dreaded balcony scene, and Wilson is still sick with worry, but immensely relieved that his best friend decided not to jump.


Wilson sat back in his office chair, sighing heavily.

He pressed both of his palms to his eyes, struggling to stop the tears that had been threatening to fall all morning. There was absolutely nothing he could do to get the situation out of his mind; he'd seen a couple of patients, and completed a load of paperwork, but that was all he'd been able to do so far. His thoughts relentlessly strayed to what had occured over the weekend...the memory of House perching precariously on that balcony ledge...House being suicidal. Then, he remembered being able to talk him down, and breathed a little easier - but he could have been too late. But he wasn't - that was the important thing.

Just the fact that House was upset enough to lose the will to live broke Wilson's heart. It also filled him with dread and terrible anxiety. He was going to have to keep a close eye on him for a while. Somehow, he was going to have to show House that his life was not Cuddy; he _could_ move past this obstacle. Yes, the Vicodin might become a serious problem again, but as long as he wasn't overdosing...Wilson supposed it wasn't the worst case scenario. Addicts are addicts, and if House wanted, he could overcome that obstacle _again_. Wilson just had to get him on the right path. But for now, he just wanted House alive. He wanted House to know that there was still someone who gave a damn.

One lone tear slipped down his cheek when an image of House on the balcony barged into his brain once more. His heart skipped a beat and he took a moment to catch his breath. If he had lost his best friend...And suddenly, the tears wouldn't stop.

He didn't just cry for that awful, _awful_ night, but for the past couple of months. House had happily made himself miserable trying to please Cuddy. Trying to hold together the ripped seams of their relationship - coming to him for advice, bending over backward until his spine nearly snapped with the pressure. Trying so hard when...there was really no need. Cuddy was never going to accept House completely for who he was, and that was...somewhat understandable, though she ought to have known better. She should have never begun something that was so obviously going to end in disaster. Although, Wilson had to admit to himself, he had been enthusiastic about their itemhood at first; he knew House had wanted it for a long time. Then he began to see that they were not the perfect match after all...It became clear that Cuddy expected so much from him, and House was almost willing to give it all to her. But what she needed from him caused him to become twisted and warped, and...not Wilson's best friend. And he didn't like it. And _House_ didn't like it. But the older man's worst fear was being alone, so he put up with it, and even deluded himself into thinking that it was for his own good. God, it had seemed so much longer than two months. Wilson had missed him.

Their friendship had been shoved lightly to one side as this new relationship began developing. They had still had their bowling nights every Thursday, but House was always distracted, and Wilson had known that he was worrying obsessively about screwing up another chance at happiness and pushing away another person he cared about, for there was always some new thing Cuddy was sniping at. Wilson began to have serious doubts, and he began to miss House more and more.

He didn't mean to sound childish or petulant, but he had felt that Cuddy was taking House from him. He ignored the feeling, however, and concentrated on deluding himself into thinking that House was happy as well. That was all that mattered, right? Well, Wilson was miserable. He was alone. He had a cat. Where was his life going?

That was when he realized that he was crying for both of them. He missed House, he was scared for House, and he was scared for himself. And now, all they had was each other. Wilson couldn't help but think that that was how it should be. It was all so much simpler with just the two of them...but one of them always ran as if it were more way more complicated. With his thoughts turning to House nearly dying again, Wilson felt a familiar surge of relief in the pit of his stomach, and fresh tears spilled from his brown eyes. At that moment, he didn't want to worry over where they would go from here. He simply wanted to concentrate on the fact that he wasn't planning a funeral.

He then recalled the only hug they had ever shared in the twenty years they had known each other.

Even from the great distance of height, Wilson had seen the small nod of consent as House finally agreed to come down. He watched breathlessly until House had climbed down from the white railings, and watched still until he had disappeared inside the hotel room. After a few moments of making sure that he wasn't going to come back out and pitch himself across the lawn, Wilson tore off into lobby of the hotel. He reached the nearest elevator, jabbing furiously at the _up_ button. He recieved a few odd looks at his light kicks to the wall and his obviously flushed face, but he didn't notice them or care at all. The doors finally opened; he scrambled inside and jammed the level four button. He ran his palm repeatedly over the length of his face, his breathing ragged, and practically fell out when the doors opened again. When he stared wildly about, unsure of which way to go from there, he spotted House limping down the hall to the left, coming toward him. The younger man took a deep breath to compose himself, and walked with purpose until he had caught his best friend up in a bone-crushing embrace.

House simply breathed in his ear, quiet and with an air of total exhaustion. Wilson forced back the urge to vomit, too shocked and relieved for tears. He wasn't even aware that any time had passed until he felt heavy arms wrap around him, and realized that House was trembling ever so slightly.

The tears showed no sign of stopping as Wilson remembered how vulnerable House had made himself that night. Despite his insistance of being "fine" all throughout the day, he had finally acknowledged that he was not. That he needed help. He had brought Wilson back into the hotel room with him, and shown him two Vicodin bottles. Thankfully they were not empty. Even more thankfully, the label showed that there were only three missing from the first. But it still didn't make Wilson feel any better about the situation. House had not almost tried to kill himself because he was high, but because he _actually_ wanted to die. Wilson was very discouraged by that, but at the same time, _en_couraged by the fact that House obviously wanted help. For a moment, Wilson could have sworn that House's blue eyes revealed a pleading desire for him to stay there for the remainder of the night. He had silently asked Wilson if he cared enough...and of course, he did.

They barely spoke. There was nothing that Wilson didn't understand about all that had taken place.

Presently, he planted his elbows on the surface of his desk, and attempted to control himself. It wasn't appropriate to be in here bawling his eyes out when he had work to do. House was okay. For now.

Suddenly, his door opened. Wilson knew who was going to enter before he did. Closing the door behind him with a _snap_, the object of his thoughts limped over to stand in front of his desk. Wilson peered blearily up at him, his insides flooding with relief yet again. More tears fell.

"Hey," House greeted after some silence, plucking a tissue from the box to his left, and handing it to him.

Wilson took it, and wiped his nose furiously. "Hey. How are you doing?"

Undisguised, House shot him a small, affectionate smile. "I'm not the one trying to drown my patient files."

Wilson didn't have the energy to muster up a chuckle or make a clever retort. Instead, he sniffed, wiping his face on his sleeve.

House watched him contemplatively for a while. Wilson tried not to whither away under his stare; the man who could so easily have died was standing here, staring at him with perfectly blue eyes that showed actual concern for _him_. True, he probably appeared as if the slightest gust of wind would knock him over, and he had probably aquired some dark, pretty circles underneath his eyes from worrying and losing sleep, along with puffiness from crying, but House hardly looked better. Wilson opened his mouth to ask him again how he was doing, but House shook his head.

"No, I haven't slept, I've only taken four Vicodin since this weekend, and yes, I am very depressed." House raised one eyebrow as if in a challenge. "I'm alone."

Wilson's breath caught, and he turned the game around by responding, "I'm alone, too."

House nodded curtly. He then set his cane down across the arms of the visitor's chair, and limped around to Wilson's side of the desk until that he was standing behind him. Wilson didn't bother to try to keep him within sight range. At this point, anything House planned was extremely welcome as long as it had nothing to do with death.

His best friend placed his hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently. Wilson restrained from sighing; they were warm and heavy, and felt wonderful against the muscles he hadn't realized were very tense. He leaned back in his chair, desiring more contact. House obliged, applying pressure and moving his thumbs in slow, circular movements. Wilson rolled his shoulders back, groaning softly.

Something had changed between them. He was glad.

House rubbed and kneaded the tight muscles while Wilson uttered little noises of appreciation every couple of seconds, unable to help it. He could feel himself relaxing more and more into House's seemingly expert touch.

"Wilson," House said in a very low voice.

"Hm...?"

House didn't answer right away. Wilson almost forgot that he'd even said anything, too lost in the miracle of his singing back.

"I'm..." he trailed off, and didn't finish, his thumbs still moving in deep circles.

Wilson's eyes opened. Slowly, he spun his chair around so that he was looking up into House's bare, guilty face. Wilson was silent, thinking of the best way get him talking, but not about what he knew House was trying to say. He gave a slight nod, telling him silently that he didn't need to apologize.

"I miss you," he settled on eventually.

House leaned back against the bookcase, his eyes raking over Wilson's face. They were still filled to the brim with guilt.

"You've been miserable."

Wilson nodded. "We've _both_ been miserable."

Tentatively, House leaned forward. Wilson blinked up at him curiously. Then, exact decision passed over the older man's face, and he bent down, pressing a single kiss to Wilson's lips. As he stood again, the corners twitched over so slightly; he wasn't ready for a genuine smile just yet. But, of course, House caught it, and twitched his lips right back. Then he left without a word.

Once the wooden door was closed, Wilson swiveled around in his chair, and sank his head upon his arms on his desk, breathing the heaviest sigh of relief yet.

House was going to be okay.


End file.
